PNG'd

The skinny puppy sat down at a guy so we’re headed back to rez

A sniffer dog where we work picked up a scent off one of the cars coming in. When a trained dog comes across its target smell it sits down and waits for a treat. (I’m not sure if mine sniffing dogs also sit down. I would hope not). Since these are working dogs in a hot climate they’re pretty thin. By contrast the guard dogs are not as thin. One might describe those dogs as muscley. The bomb dogs usually only work from 45 minutes to an hour and a half at a stretch before being given some practice (fake bombs) and treats. Then they play fetch and take a nap in an air conditioned trailer.

You don’t have to treat the dogs like this. You can work them for hours at a time in the sun. But dogs get cranky and tired too. And cranky and tired dogs don’t do very good work… sniffing for bombs.

Since the dog sat down by the poor guy’s car the bomb squad was called in and our compound was shut down. No foot traffic, no cars, no one in or out, nothing moving for two blocks around. Which when you consider the alternatives seems pretty sensible.

Usually this happens once or twice a month. It lasts for an hour or two and most of the time we don’t even notice. But this was over lunch and we’d left our computers and papers in the office. Which was now under total lockdown.

Nothing to be done for it but to sit and wait. Which we spend a lot of time doing anyway.

The security situation where I am isn’t loud and flashy. The sky doesn’t rain an unceasing deluge of the smoking debris of nascent democracy. Just a constant squeeze on the way you behave and what you’re able to do. The delays are part of it

Wait for the all clear, helmet – check, jacket – check, ID-check, wait for the car, evacuation card – check, medical kit-check, wait at the checkpoint , wait in the ID line …. on and on every time you go outside. The result is that all the fun ‘outs’ you enjoy back home are constrained. Can’t go out, can’t hang out, can’t make out, can’t sneak out, can’t get out. And after a while cabin fever sets in :

“Why the hell do I have to put on this stupid heavy sweat-stinking piece of crap every time I want to …”

>>boom<<

Ah. Right.

Dammit, pass me my helmet. Let’s go find beer.

Epilogue: five hours, no bomb, guy was finally allowed to go home, got our stuff back, and worked until far into the night to make up for all the time we lost. Lamest snow day ever.

Posted by pngd at 02:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Watching blackhawks dump flares.

Thump and the whole world gains contrast. They shimmer and spit like you only see when you press on your closed eyes. You can hear and feel the rotors pounding the air. If you stare it becomes sensory overload. The flares go out, the rotor scream dopplers away and everything is twice as dark as before.

Posted by pngd at 06:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Sitting in an armored car staring at the sidewalk:

Colleage in the Front Seat: Look, black cat.

Colleage in the Back Seat : Black cat?

PNG: Black CAT! Black CAT! <giggles like a six year old>

Colleagues in the Seats: What? 'tard.

National Geographic Voice: Life is hard for the cats of the IZ. As in much of the civilized the world they’re considered vermin. They may keep the rats and mice down but frankly rats and mice eat roaches and we're perfectly comfortable putting down some glue paper for them. :End National Geographic Voice

C’mere mickey. You’ve had a nice evening of shitting in my cornflakes and leaving wetspots at the bottom of the fruit dish. Come rest your head on this inexplicably sticky piece of paper with a banana slice in the middle…

Besides the lack of safety inherent in any war-zone the cats in the IZ are particularly put upon. Stressed out security gaurds, silenced (sorry ‘suppressed’) weapons, and everyone’s carry a laser/IR sight. No wonder there are only two cats left in my neighborhood. One had kittens on the roof and so was given amnesty by the frighteningly maternal PSDs. The other one looks the same so no one shoots at it. Stressed, armed, accurate. Would you risk a shot at their pet?

C’mon though, “black cat, black cat” people should know that, right?

Posted by pngd at 12:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Guess what channel is default where I work?

Is it me or is Anjali Rao the hottest real anchor ever? I’ve been thinking about it (it’s not like I have a lot of free time but let me put it this way: if ass is in gear then brain is in neutral) and I’ve come to the conclusion that CNNi’s marketing plan is to dominate international news by recruiting only the most beautiful journalists.

I mean think about it: you’re traveling the world and you need news. You’re already in a self-selected crowd. You must by definition be smart enough to navigate a modern airport and you’re driven enough to voluntarily put on the news. So CNNi puts on gorgeous reporters who report actual news. Not only are you glued to the screen but there’s no guilt about ogling while you should be getting better informed. It’s genius!

Alternately, every competent journalist who isn’t working on the EST timezone is smoking. While Chris Matthews and Larry King may support this option I’m skeptical.

Uh. Hi, Honey. I think if anything this should prove I’m behaving myself out here. Satisfied people don’t forget to blink during newscasts...

* that's a reference to music that is.

Posted by pngd at 12:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You think that bit’s sposed to stay in or come out?

It's always a little shocking to go from a place where I complain about the air quality constantly to places where it's much worse and no-one even says word one. Back home I bike around everywhere so my clothes always smell vaguely of truck exhaust (as opposed to the popular myth that it's a combination of lamentable hygiene and a rare genetic disorder). Here my clothes constantly smell of burning trash and no one makes a comment. Because nobody can smell a damn thing.

The first time you blow your nose and it looks like a cephalopods defensive tactic it's a little disturbing. After a while you just accept the tangible proof of your skyrocketing cancer risk and move on.

Cause considering that the risk of dying while riddled with cancer is much lower here than the risk of dying while riddled with high velocity debris most people aren't sweating the fact that they're testing out the EPA's policy recommendations before their implementation back home. (whoo run on sentences. Eat defeat high school English teachers.) If air pollution lowers sperm count (go read new scientist) then I can pretty much stop chipping in on the pill (yeah, I pay a cut. I'm a slighty less than totally reprehensible human being you cheapskate).

The little tissue there is a sign of my losing war with monitor scum. One week! If Mary Poppins ran her little gloved finger over my desk she'd be in therapy for years. Oh, a spoon full of zanax helps the twitching slow dooOOOown, twitching slow dooOOOoown. The only neat freak I know out here is … well…. Not Happy.

Also on the screen is wonderful little post that combines the most optimistic potential for this place and a little homesickness. I'm missing the beginning of tourrorist season and with it the first enraged rush-hour tramplings. I guess it's only a month before the papers start recycling their 'walk left, stand right' columns.

But I’m not going to post a link*. This is a test. If you don't already have it bookmarked you have failed the test. It’s like the SAT. If you aren’t supposed to score you won’t.

*is that bad etiquette on a blog? I have no idea. I had to have the concept of 'posting' explained to me twice in low syllable density sentences.

Posted by pngd at 11:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Most of the time I don’t know what I’m doing.

I’d like to say it’s only since I came to Baghdad that that’s been a problem. Good excuse, new place, new rules. But no…

Most of the time I can fall back on my manners. If I’m polite I may still screw up and get fired (again) but I probably won’t get beaten with a mop handle (again).

But my manners don’t work out here. I don’t just mean I’m eating with my fork in the right hand (or left) and picking my nose at inappropriate times (while holding the fork!)

I was walking down a hallway in the embassy (also known as ‘the palace', since it’s one of Saddam’s old palaces [one of many]. Also known as 'sweet sweet relief' since I’m the only one from my company allowed inside unescorted. I like to sit by the coffee stand behind one of the couches and pretend I can’t hear my phones ringing) and I saw a woman walking towards me. The door between us was pretty narrow so I moved aside to let her pass. (I also hold doors at home. I’ve been told I’m not supposed to do that anymore, is that true? [I thought it was like using the pronoun ‘Zee’. No one actually started doing it the new way ‘cause it was just so ridiculous])

I’m standing there waiting for her to pass and she stops on the other side of the door. (Begin panic)

“Oh, please go ahead” I get a worried stare back. (check my zipper. No, it’s up this time)

I wave at the doorway. More worried staring. (double check the zipper. Still up!)

I consider the situation. For an outside observer there are really only two options:
A) I’m attempting the worst pickup in world history.
B) I’m retarded.
Based on previous experience both are plausible. However, the latter is much much more likely.

Shit. She’s still staring at me. What the hell’s gone wrong? Girl-door-me standing aside politely. How could etiquette fail me? Maybe she’s not American? No. She’s American. I can tell by the unifor…

Oh.

She’s in uniform.

And I’m not.

“Uh, pardon me, ma’am.” I walk through.

“Thank you, sir.”

Definitely option B.

Posted by pngd at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)